


It's Raining Gay (Hallelujah)

by DreamsAreMyWords, TheSSClexa



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Accidental collab, Accidental other things too, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Banter, CRC, Clexa, F/F, Flirting, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Happy, Kissing in the Rain, Porn With Plot, Public Sex, Rain, Shameless Smut, Smut, Strangers to Lovers, Trains, clexa sexa, clexa sin, clextober18, eh you usually need to douse yourself with holy water after halloween anyway, zero angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 02:09:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16466687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamsAreMyWords/pseuds/DreamsAreMyWords, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSSClexa/pseuds/TheSSClexa
Summary: Clarke and Lexa, falling in love at coffee shops and fucking on trains in public. #LivingTheirBestLives





	It's Raining Gay (Hallelujah)

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween and we have a treat for you! The only thing better than candy is a smutty fluffy fic. 
> 
> This is an accidental collaboration between thessclexa and myself, posted for Free Day of Clextober18. This takes place in fall and that's all you need to know.
> 
> Also just putting it out there that I entirely blame thessclexa for this. *I* am probably the most innocent person you will ever meet, the most innocent person in all of clexakru, and I have never written or wrote smut in my life nor have I EVER had sex before. So, yeah. If thessclexa tells you that she started writing an innocent coffee shop au and shared the google doc with me and I took over and turned it into shameless smut, it's a total lie and I want you to report her for slander and libel. 
> 
> And with that, we hope you enjoy the read and please drop us a comment and let us know what you think! Hope you have a great Halloween!

Rain is the worst.  

 

At least, that’s what Lexa's sticking with. Every time it rains it inevitably sours her mood and draws complaints from her. It’s not exactly the rain that’s the problem, it’s the people. A gunmetal grey sky and gloomy surroundings? That’s fine. It’s more its unerring tendency to always make people late, always rendering them unable to navigate the same route to work, misplace items, or any other number of ridiculous minor inconveniences. Lexa can’t understand it, especially with the accuracy of weather forecasting in this day and age. She simply ensures utmost preparedness; equips herself with a pair of waterproof boots, rain coat, and umbrella before braving the buckets falling out of the sky lately.

 

Rain in itself is a lovely thing; Lexa’s quite fond of the acoustics. The pitter-patter against roofs, the swooshing of cars through puddles, and if she’s lucky, the low rumble of thunder in the distance. It’s soothing. If she focuses on that rather than the way people typically rush about on a rainy day during her morning commute to work, her day will go fine.

  
Except today, apparently. That quickly becomes evident when Lexa steps off the train and is greeted by a large handwritten sign.

 

FLOODED (sorry!) CLOSED

 

As a coffee connoisseur, the sky’s recent deluge has flooded Lexa’s favorite coffee shop. The sudden rise in the water level left the underground-situated shop walls seeping and several inches of stagnant water on the floor.  Wonderful. Lexa gazes at the sign plastered on the window for another moment, wistful already at the thought of her usual coffee waiting just beyond the locked door. A low dose of annoyance and disappointment circulate her veins. Since her move to Arkadia City, it had taken a few weeks for the baristas at this coffee shop to recognize her and memorize her drink, making for easier mornings. This is her coffee place and she’s not one to deviate from her normal routine. Maybe she doesn’t have to go anywhere else; maybe she could survive one day without any coffee.

 

Yeah right. She snorts and fishes out her phone to pull up a search for the nearest coffee shop. She sighs when she realizes the nearest one is three blocks away and the opposite direction to her place of work. Resigned to her fate, Lexa pops open her umbrella and navigates toward her source of caffeine. Like all coffee shops, it smells sweet— freshly ground beans, and something distinctly fall: pumpkin spice. The space is outfitted with small tables, sofas, and local art. Everything Lexa expects until a shimmer of gold catches her eye.

 

The barista.

 

Fuck. Lexa stumbles as she passes through the doorway, but she’ll blame it on her preoccupation while closing her umbrella and not the gorgeous woman behind the counter. She’s absolutely beautiful. It’s cliché and Lexa knows it, but as the line reduces, the blonde’s attractiveness grows exponentially. Lexa watches her move: from the register to the espresso machine, blender, and back to the register. There’s a unique carefree lightness about her, a stark contrast to customers’ wet coats, black umbrellas, and rain depressed moods—Lexa included, up until this point anyway. Now rain drips from her umbrella and forms a puddle on the floor but she doesn’t notice, instead lost in the squirm of butterflies in her belly and the draw of her eyes as though to magnets that exist in the form of blue eyes and an easy smile. A fellow barista speaks to her and the blonde barks a laugh that’s deadly contagious, infecting a smile on Lexa’s lips.

 

“Hi, welcome to Sky Café,” the blonde greets and oh, God, her voice is deeper than Lexa expected, almost husky, like she smokes a pack a day or just rolled out of bed. The visual for that second option has Lexa’s belly exploding with warmth and she looks away, cursing herself for blushing. The blonde tilts her head, smile curling higher on one end. “How can I help you?”

 

Lexa clears her throat and forces herself to make eye contact. She drinks in the girl behind the counter in a socially acceptable pause (without seeming like a creep, hopefully), though she swears she’s receiving the same look: a quick once-over; a bite of the lip; a tick of the brow.

 

“Hi. I’d like a caramel latte please. Soy. Only two pumps, and a dash of cinnamon if you don’t mind.” Lexa’s eyes drift to read the blonde’s name tag: _CLARKE._

 

Clarke’s brow arches higher for a moment, blue gaze sweeping over Lexa again in such a way it seems deliberate and has more warmth stirring in the pit of Lexa's stomach.

 

“Too complicated?” she asks nervously, blurting out anything to fill the suddenly thick silence.

 

Clarke scoffs but she jolts into motion, tapping the order into the register. “Please. I could make that in my sleep.”

 

“Bold words,” says Lexa, hoping making jokes will take away the dryness in her mouth. “Usually takes baristas a few weeks to learn my order.”

 

“Mmhm. Well, you’ve never had a barista like me.”

 

Lexa’s laugh easily draws a smile from Clarke. “Is that so?”

 

“Yep. I don’t want to brag or anything, but I’m probably the epitome of the perfect barista. I’ve never messed up a single order in my life.”

 

The fellow barista nearby snorts as she froths a metallic container of milk, the sound blending with the machinery, and Clarke pretends to shoot her a withering glare that has Lexa chuckling again.

 

Clarke returns her gaze to Lexa, producing a cocky grin Lexa starts to return before Clarke shrugs and adds, “Besides, I like a girl who knows what she wants…”

  
Lexa blinks. “Excuse me?”

  
“That’s a caramel latte, soy, two pumps and some cinnamon, right?” She looks up with a casual, innocent smile that has Lexa frowning and wondering if she’d just imagined what she said.

  
  
“Um. Yes, perfect.”

  
Clarke reaches for a cup and uncaps a Sharpie with her mouth. Her tongue flicking at the cap end is devilishly distracting. “Name?”

  
The lapse in thought is rare for Lexa, so rare that this might be the first time she’s ever forgotten her own name.

  
“Uh—”

  
Clarke’s lips curl again, slow and teasing. “Well that’s ironic. The girl who expects baristas to remember her complicated order can’t even remember her own name.”

“Uh—Lexa,” she says, blushing clear to the tips of her ears. She takes a breath and stands taller, leaning. Clarke watches her curiously, eyes sparkling as Lexa whispers conspiratorially, “Girls usually remember that too, though. Especially pretty baristas.”

 

Clarke leans in too, speaking in the same hushed tone. “Do you have a habit of surrounding yourself with pretty baristas, Alexa?”

 

Lexa’s so distracted by diamond blues, she doesn’t notice Clarke’s misspeak of her name.

 

There’s only one way to withstand the smooth bluster of someone like Clarke; Lexa quickly reverts to her dry deadpan humor, hoping it hides the fact that her heart is about to hurtle out of her chest and grab hold—hard.

 

“Only the ones who can keep up with me,” Lexa says, feigning seriousness as Clarke’s brows raise and her teeth sink into her bottom lip.

 

“Clarke, you’re getting a line,” calls the other barista; Clarke and Lexa both flinch as they return to reality, turning to see the line really was growing, extending nearly to the door.

 

Clarke scribbles Lexa’s name on the cup and nods. “Got it,” she says, winking at Lexa before she turns to the next customer.

 

Stepping aside, Lexa waits in the open area, no longer upset that she’s here, tempted to find a seat and call in late to work, but she really can’t afford that. The other barista swaps to take orders while Clarke starts making Lexa’s. The balance between the two is unsaid, effortlessly routine, as they manage the increasing line. Clarke’s apron is stretched tight over a busty chest and Lexa’s eyes flit down to her phone every time Clarke turns her direction.

 

With a dust of cinnamon, Clarke is finished and blue eyes search for green. “Here you are,” she says, placing the cup on the high counter with fingers still on the paper cup.

 

Lexa reaches, intentionally brushing Clarke’s fingertips in the exchange. “Thank you.”

 

The smirk of satisfaction on Clarke’s lips doesn’t escape Lexa—as if Clarke also got what she was looking for—and Lexa is delighted to play along. Reluctantly, Lexa breaks their eye contact and pivots for the door. She can still feel those blue eyes on her and just as Lexa’s exits she looks over her shoulder, pleased to find Clarke returning her gaze.

 

Outside, the rain has slowed to a drizzle and Lexa takes a cautious first sip. The temperature is _perfect_ and it tastes better than her status quo three blocks down. Although, considering who made it, she might be biased. Idly looking at the cup, Lexa is disheartened by the misspelling of her name: _ALEXA_. Fucking Bezos. Lexa blames the rising popularity of Amazon’s home device on this mistake becoming a more common occurrence.

 

Though, this does give Lexa a great opportunity to tease Clarke.

 

Tomorrow, thinks Lexa. Tomorrow.

/

 

It’s not tomorrow, it’s 6:32 P.M. and Lexa is walking back to the train station with boots, coat, and umbrella in full force because another downpour has begun. Curious, Lexa detours by the coffee shop in search of blonde hair and blue eyes. Just a glimpse, or maybe an evening coffee, but when she passes by, Clarke is absent. Lexa isn’t surprised, though her proximity to this morning’s occurrence has her chest thrumming.

 

/

 

Tomorrow.

While the color of the sky hasn’t changed, Lexa’s mood is the whole opposite. Rain always crowds the metro, forcing pedestrians and cyclists inside a 75 by 10 foot metal box, but Lexa’s body is buzzing in heightened anticipation as she steps off the congested train car. She quickens her pace, weaving around puddles and avoiding drivers who have apparently forgotten how to operate their vehicles, swerving onto the sidewalk and running stop signs. Again, Lexa blames the rain.

She spots Clarke at first glance through the windows and pushes the door inside. Their eyes immediately lock, as if Clarke were eagerly awaiting her arrival. Instinctively, Lexa kicks her boots across the front mat and gives her umbrella a few shakes just outside before fully entering.

Their eye contact lasts longer with each passing customer until Lexa reaches the counter.

“Alexa! Right?”

“Hi.” Lexa hates for a name correction to be the first verbal exchange of their morning, but she has nowhere else to go, so she owns it and smirks, leaning up against the counter. “So, Perfect Barista, there’s something you should know, from a most dissatisfied customer.”

 

Clarke’s already grinning, and it only grows as Lexa rearranges her face into a stern, bemused expression, though the twinkling in her eyes gives her away.  “Hit me with it, I love an opportunity to learn.”

 

“You broke one of the cardinal rules of barista-ing,” she ignores the laugh that bubbles out of Clarke’s lips, “and misspelled my name.”

 

Clarke’s hands flutter over her chest, exaggerated horror rounding those blue eyes. “I did not! You said, “Uh-lex-uh.”

 

“No, there’s no ‘A’.”

 

“Oh." Clarke's lower lip juts forward in an adorable pout, exaggerated for comic effect that does the trick and has Lexa fighting a grin. “So just Alex then? I like it, very gender-neutral.”

 

“Ah—the other way around. It’s just Lexa.”

 

“Ohh, oh. Well that’s different, Just Le _xa_.” Clarke drags out the pronunciation, hissing the ‘x’s. “Well, that’s it for me, then, my third strike and I’m out. I’ll be fired by noon.”

 

Lexa’s lips twitch with her effort to suppress a smile. “What were your other two strikes?”

 

“First strike was for neglecting my duties to flirt with pretty customers,” says Clarke casually, reaching out to tug on Lexa’s shirt collar; Lexa’s takes a sharp intake of breath as Clarke’s fingers brush against her neck, warm and soft. She forces herself to stay still as Clarke sweeps a thumb over the fabric to smooth out the crease. When Clarke pulls her hand back, she’s smirking in triumph. “I have no idea what they were talking about, though. I don’t flirt.”

 

Lexa swallows thickly.  “I’d say any attempts at flirting would be negated by your failure to spell their names properly, though.”

 

Clarke sighs. “You’re right. I guess my strengths lie in my other skills.”

 

Lexa’s gaze shifts from blue eyes to the tempting curve of Clarke’s lips. “Like what?”

 

Clarke’s smirk grows. “Stick around and maybe you’ll find out.”

 

Lexa swallows. “What time are you off?”

 

“I’m off at noon and then in class until five.”

 

Fuck.

 

“I work until six,” says Lexa in disappointment.

 

Clarke lifts a shoulder and lets it fall. “Your loss,” she teases, “But I might be convinced to come back in and stick around, maybe do some extra cleaning. It could be punishment for my third strike,” she jokes, and then Lexa speaks without thinking.

 

“You like being punished?”

 

Shit. Shit. They both freeze and Clarke’s smile slips away as her eyes go wide. Lexa stares at her, mouth opening and closing. She’s about to apologize for being so loose lipped when Clarke’s gaze flits to her mouth and lingers there. A pink tongue pokes out to wet those pale pink lips and Lexa’s entire body erupts with heat.

 

Clarke clears her throat and if Lexa weren’t so distracted by how hot her own face feels, she might have noticed the pink tint to Clarke’s cheeks. “So… same order as yesterday.”

 

Lexa clears her own throat, not trusting her voice not to crack. She goes for her best normal, steady tone as she says, “Yes, caramel lat—”

 

“Latte, soy, two pumps, and cinnamon.” Clarke winks, “I got you.”

 

Clarke rings the register with the total and Lexa pulls out her phone, swiping the device over the machine, wishing she’d carried cash as another excuse to make physical contact with Clarke.

 

While waiting, Lexa stands closer to the pick-up counter. Her phone stays pocketed as Clarke’s movements hold her undivided attention, actively staring Clarke down as if they were in a nightclub. Clarke peeks across at Lexa with each phase of the drink, smirking until she circles around to put a lid on Lexa’s order. Lexa’s breath is caught in her throat again as she takes the order and their fingers brush each other; Clarke’s index finger deliberately strokes down the length of Lexa’s long middle finger as she holds Lexa’s gaze.

 

It’s painfully obvious how breathless Lexa is when she says, “Thank you, Clarke.”

 

“You’re welcome, Lexa.” Just before their hands slip completely, Clarke brings her other hand across and lays it atop Lexa’s wrist. “Oh, and I um, added just a little bit something extra…” Clarke says, licking her lips. “I think you’ll like it.”

 

With the way Clarke is looking at her, she could probably could serve Lexa dirty dishwater and Lexa would still drink it down with enthusiasm.

 

As she heads out the door, she brings her cup to her lips. At first sip, Lexa can’t tell if anything’s been changed about her drink. On consecutive sips, there’s a subtlety of… something. A distinct contrast to the light sweetness Lexa is used to and balances the drink _perfectly._ When Lexa peers down at her cup, trying to decipher the added—or omitted—ingredient, she huffs the second she reads the cup: _LEKSA_. Smirking, Lexa idly rolls the cup in her hands, already looking forward to tomorrow morning.

 

/

 

Wednesday morning.

 

The sky is a murky overcast and the crowd on the railcar today has Lexa smashed against door, spilling out as the rush of passengers exit. Commuters, pushing and shoving to get just a few humans ahead while others have eyes glued to their phone screens, bumping into people. This is how Lexa ends up getting smacked in the head by an umbrella; a man with his eyes on his phone blindly lifts his rain deterrent and makes contact with the back of the brunette’s head.

 

“Ow!”

 

“Oh, sorry!” the man says, but that’s all, and returns his eyes to his phone.

 

It leaves Lexa grumpy, tempted to whack the phone out of the man’s hands. She doesn’t, minding her own umbrella and making way towards the highlight of her day.

 

Upon entry, Clarke greets her with a smile beaming brightly enough to be the sun itself. Clouds and rain are forgotten in Clarke’s sunlit path and Lexa can only mirror the exuberance. Grins widen as the distance between them closes when Lexa reaches the front counter.

 

“Good morning, Lexa.”

 

“Morning.”

 

“So, did you enjoy your drink yesterday—can I get you the same?” Clarke assumes with a hint of smugness that has Lexa drawn in like moth to a flame.

 

“Yes, it was quite good.”

 

“Just quite?” Clarke jibes.

 

“Okay, it was really good,” Lexa relents, mouth tipping into a smirk that causes Clarke’s to grow. “I’ll have the same today, please.”

 

“Mm,” Clarke winks. “Knew you’d like it.”

 

“What was it, by the way?”

 

“And give my secrets, please,” Clarke bats her lashes. “How else do you think I maintain perfect barista status.”

 

“Actually…”

 

Clarke’s eyes dart up from the register.

 

“Miss Perfect Barista, you misspelled my name again. It’s ‘Lexa’ with an ‘X’.”

 

“Oh, I’ll definitely take care of that for you…” Clarke replies, suspiciously nonchalant. Clarke retrieves the marker, scribbling on the cup, before turning to make Lexa’s drink.

 

Today, Lexa watches more intently, hoping to catch the secret addition to her drink but Clarke is teasingly deceptive. Covering her actions and turning her back to Lexa when she pours and constantly averting Lexa’s gaze.

 

They touch again when Clarke hands over the drink, longer this time. There’s a tightening in Lexa’s stomach that has her throat dry when she leaves today. She’s so distracted by it and the smile Clarke gives her before she leaves that it takes her a minute to notice the spelling of her name.

 

_LEXXXA._

 

She smirks and shakes her head.

 

/

 

Thursday morning.

 

It stopped raining, momentarily at least, so Lexa makes the walk to the coffee shop without the aid of her umbrella. She’s dressed in a simple peacoat with her bag across her shoulder when she enters the coffee shop, blessed with the sight of pure gold.

 

Clarke’s back is to her, fixing a beverage at the far counter and Lexa simply stares, studying Clarke’s whimsical movements that’s both methodical and lackadaisical. But then, the second barista notices Lexa and nudges Clarke with a smirk. She whispers something to Clarke and Lexa tilts her head to gauge the situation. Lexa surmises it’s something along the lines of, “Your girl is here.”

 

“Shut up Raven,” whispers Clarke, but when she turns her grin widens as her eyes land on Lexa. Despite the soft blush on Clarke’s cheeks, she beckons Lexa over to the pick-up counter. Curious, Lexa bypasses the line and takes the bait.

 

Resting on the counter is her drink, hot and ready to go.

 

“This one’s on me today,” Clarke says, leaning forward against the counter and dipping her chest. Lexa doesn’t miss the cleavage as Clarke leans forward.

 

“That’s hardly necessary—”

 

“It’s buy three, get one free,” Clarke says, although Lexa’s sure it’s usually buy ten get one free. “It’s a um—special for, you know, special customers.”

 

“Ah—well,” Lexa takes her drink, disappointed that there isn’t an opportunity to touch Clarke today. “Thank you—Clarke.”  

 

While still in Clarke’s orbit, Lexa rolls the cup in her hands to see how Clarke spelled her name today.

 

_LEQUEXZA_

 

Lexa cracks a laugh and she has to cover her mouth as it draws the attention of several customers.

 

“What’s the matter?” Clarke says innocently. “You said it was spelled with an ‘x’, right?”

 

“Well—you were closer with the triple x’s.”

 

“Oh, is that so?” Clarke quirks an a eyebrow—a dirty, teasing eyebrow that has Lexa’s simmering stomach boiling over.

 

Lexa swallows it down and decides to fight fire with fire. “If you’re lucky, maybe you’ll find out this weekend. Tell me, if it’s buy three get one free, what do I get with an additional purchase?”

 

Clarke’s eyes rove while she thinks of answer. “If _you’re_ lucky, maybe a free phone number.”

 

Fuck yes. Lexa’s definitely coming back tomorrow. She doesn’t care if her “usual” coffee spot has resolved their flooding. She doesn’t care that she’s on the tenth purchase and due a free drink. She doesn’t care that she has enough “coffee points” racked up for a free scone or breakfast item of her choice. There is only Clarke on her mind and Lexa’s eyes will sure as hell be glued to her phone screen the minute she can text Clarke, waiting on bated breath for Clarke’s return text.

 

Tomorrow.

 

/

 

Friday morning

 

Fuck. The train is _late_. Not just a little bit late, but _a lot_ late. Hours. The storm is in full swing; winds had picked up overnight, causing several downed trees, one of which had fallen on electrical lines necessary to operate the train. Lexa’s Friday is ruined when she was looking forward to those seven digits and perhaps asking Clarke out on a actual date Saturday night.

 

Already two hours late to work, Lexa abandons waiting for the train and calls for an Uber directly to work. She cannot afford to miss the next meeting and reluctantly steps into the car.

 

Perhaps Clarke works Saturdays?

 

/

 

Friday afternoon.

 

“Clarke, will you _please_ cover my shift this afternoon?” Monty begs, “I have a date planned with Harper and they messed up my schedule. I’m supposed to be off.”

 

Clarke sighs; she knows she’s going to accept because she’s a good friend, turning her Friday afternoon off into a 12-hour shift at the coffee house. “Fine, Monty—but you owe me.”

 

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!”

 

Grimacing, Clarke makes herself a cup of coffee to ready for the afternoon rush. By the time she gets off at 6:00 P.M., it’s a torrential downpour. Stepping outside, she pops her umbrella to brave the storm and a gush of wind yanks it out of her hands.

 

“Oh, no!”

 

Clarke breaks across the street toward her umbrella, ignoring the traffic as her umbrella rolls in the rain like a tumbleweed in the desert.

 

Cars honk and Clarke dodges massive puddles as she continues to chase. It takes her several blocks the opposite direction when the umbrella is upswept into a tree with no chance of retrieval.

 

“Fuck!”

 

Defeated, Clarke tucks underneath her raincoat best she can, but the wind is blowing water directly into her face—and her legs. She’s wearing a skirt and her raincoat is not nearly long enough to cover the bare distance from her knees to the top of her boots. Bearing down, Clarke ducks away from the wind and begins a brisk pace towards the metro.

 

/

 

It’s raining elephants when Lexa departs work and walks towards the metro station. They have since fixed the downed power line and the train is back up and running. Lexa considers detouring by the coffee shop, now associating the establishment with warmth and delight, and its mere sight brightens her mood. But then she remembers Clarke won’t be there since she works the morning shifts, and well, with the way the sky is falling, the train will likely be doubly crowded considering Friday evenings are notorious for increased masses, so Lexa opts straight for the station.

Arriving to the train car, Lexa is lucky to snag one of the final seats by the door. She folds her umbrella, placing the dripping wet item on the floor and tucking in her feet and legs as passengers continue to board. It’s a steady stream until one minute before the doors close when people flood in like the Hoover Dam has busted, squishing shoulders and pushing backs.

“Excuse me! Wait! Please hold the door!”

Lexa hears it from the distance, nothing unusual about those words except the _husk_ behind it.

“Stand clear, doors closing,” announces the conductor and the doors begin to shut.

“Wait!”

A hand slices through like holding an elevator, which forces the doors to reopen and in tumbles a drenched Clarke. She is a gorgeous mess: wet hair stuck across her face, muddy boots, and face flush. Clarke’s inbound force has her nearly face planting, tripping over Lexa’s feet and Lexa only just manages to catch her, hands shooting out and stabilizing Clarke by the shoulders.

“I’m sorry—so sorry, didn’t mean to step... on… you,” Clarke says, slowly looking up and realizing who it is. Her mouth falls open and Lexa smiles.

“Stepping on customer’s feet, would that be strike three then?”

Clarke’s eyes widen in both surprise and merriment. “Lexa!”

 

“Hey.” Lexa realizes after a moment that she’s just staring at Clarke with this dopey smile on her face; she blinks and shakes her head as though to return to reality. Lexa opens her mouth to speak, to tell Clarke she missed her this morning, but then hesitates—is that too much?

 

“So, I missed you this morning,” says Clarke casually, shooting Lexa a shifty grin as she shrugs off her damp coat to hold it at her side.

 

Lexa blinks again. _Oh_. The words easily bring a smile to her face. “I missed you too,” she says honestly. “The train was down and I had to Uber. My coffee wasn’t the same.”

 

Clarke playfully reaches down to flick Lexa’s shoulder in faux offense, then clutches at the pole when the train rumbles forward. “I can’t you believe you cheated on your favorite barista.”

 

“Oh, trust me, I didn’t enjoy it. It was the free coffee in the break room at work.” Lexa wrinkles her nose the same time Clarke shudders. “It’s free for a reason. But at least _they_ always spell my name right.”

 

Clarke bursts into laughter and Lexa can’t explain how it sounds like sunshine, the same way Clarke looks as she holds the pole while the train stops and people pile off.  “ _You're_ the one who makes those!"

 

“Exactly, Clarke. And _I_ _am_ the perfect barista. No strikes at all.”

 

“Now I know that’s a lie,” says Clarke, relaxing into a smirk. “I can already think of three strikes right now.”

 

Lexa arches a brow. “Oh?”

 

“Strike one: you didn’t share your umbrella and now look at me.”

 

The grin fades somewhat as Lexa does as Clarke says and shifts her gaze from the top of her rain-wild blonde hair down to her sodden shoes. She lingers for a beat too long on the water droplets streaking down exposed legs, on the wet fabric clinging to Clarke’s ample chest. Oh, Jesus. Lexa realizes what she’s doing and her eyes snap up to Clarke’s, which are dancing with mischief.

 

Lexa pretends to be unaffected and rolls her eyes. “I couldn’t share my umbrella with you when I didn’t even know you were out there, Clarke. Plus, I thought you were off by noon?”

 

“I had to cover a shift for a friend,” shrugs Clarke, clutching at the handlebar once more as the train roars forward, nearly knocking her into the people beside her. “Strike two,” she adds, a bit breathlessly as she shuffles to keep her balance. “You didn’t save me a seat.”

 

“Again, as much as I wish I were, I’m not psychic and therefore couldn’t have saved a seat for you. I propose to remove a strike from my record by offering my current seat to you.”

 

“No, no,” waves Clarke dismissively, shaking her head; a few drops of water fall as she does. The train jolts to life, accelerating forward and Clarke sways with the momentum. Their knees brush, but Clarke makes no effort to remove the contact. “I’m just a few stops away. I’m not taking your seat, Lexa.” Her smirk quirks up again. “Unless you want to share.”

 

Lexa swallows at the suggestion but frowns down at the seat. “I mean, we can, but you’re soaked—do you want to get me wet?”

 

Lexa blanches as the words leave her lips and Clarke immediately givers her a wicked grin, opening her mouth to—Lexa is sure—tease her. But then the boxcar makes a hard turn and it throws Clarke onto her lap. Lexa’s initial gut instinct is to help Clarke off, but she’s warm and more importantly, Clarke’s face is _close._

 

“Uh… Clarke?”

 

“Hm?” Clarke’s eyes widen in bright acknowledgement.

 

“You going to get off me…?”

 

"What?” Clarke wiggles back. “Nope. I meant to do this."

 

Lexa smirks, arching a dubious brow. "You meant to fall on me?"

 

Clarke grins. "You want me to get up?"

 

"No, no. You needed a seat. And I have a lap,” Lexa replies and breaks eye contact.

 

“Best seat in the house,” chirps Clarke, turning slightly away so Lexa doesn’t quite catch Clarke’s murmured, “Though I can think of one better place to sit…”

 

“I’m sorry, what?”

 

“Oh, nothing.”

 

“You comfortable enough?” asks Lexa, shifting and squeezing her legs together so Clarke can curl further into her to avoid the close contact with those standing, who have since taken spot. Lexa tucks her umbrella further under the seat while Clarke clutches her wet coat and purse on her lap.

 

“Yep, I’m perfect.” Lexa tries to ignore the way Clarke scoots back into her, the way her ass feels plump and firm on her lap.

 

“I guess I’ll humor you and remove your strike from the record for giving me a seat after all.”

 

“I didn’t think you meant using _me_ as a seat.”

 

Clarke’s one-shouldered shrug as her back pressing against Lexa’s front. “Maybe that’s exactly what I meant.”

 

Fuck.

 

The train screeches to a stop and as passengers squeeze on and off, Clarke curls, side-saddle on Lexa to make more room. Suddenly feeling warm, Lexa pulls her raincoat off and balls it up beside her in the minimal space remaining. The existing low churn in Lexa’s belly rises when the train accelerates again, tossing passengers backwards and Lexa reaches to steady Clarke: one hand on the blonde’s lower back and the other on her bare knee. Lexa nearly jumps out of her skin when Clarke’s hand lands on hers, over her knee, and _squeezes_ before threading their fingers together.

 

Okay… so, they’re holding hands now. Lexa can handle that. Except, she struggles to regulate her breathing, more than aware that her chest—her _breasts_ —are pressed against Clarke’s back and she can feel every movement. As Lexa tries to remember how to breathe, period, Clarke begins stroking Lexa’s finger with her thumb. The heat in Lexa’s belly is enough to warm her even against Clarke’s cold, damp clothes.

 

“Sorry, I think I am getting you a little wet after all,” whispers Clarke, looking over her shoulder at Lexa, who, by this point, has swallowed her tongue. She’s helpless to do anything but sit there like a statue as Clarke reaches back with her free hand to briefly drag a fingertip down over the damp fabric of Lexa’s sternum. Lexa blinks when Clarke catches her eye and holds it, blue eyes impish; Clarke knows _exactly_ what she’s doing.

 

Lexa recognizes the challenge for what it is and resolves to meet it.

 

“Another strike for you then,” she breathes, splaying her hand to untangle their fingers. Clarke’s eyes flash in disappointment but quickly darken again when Lexa flattens Clarke’s hand against her own thigh and begins stroking the outside of Clarke’s hands and fingers, occasionally skimming away and brushing the soft skin of her knee and thigh. When Lexa abandons Clarke’s hand altogether and begins tracing light patterns along the inside of Clarke’s thigh, she can hear the hitch of Clarke’s breath as much as she can see it, tracing just high enough where Clarke skin is warm, and sensitive.

 

“You sure that’s a smart idea?” murmurs Clarke. The dare in Clarke’s voice equals her heated gaze.

 

Lexa pauses, scrutinizing Clarke’s expression for any signs of possible hesitancy. None whatsoever. Nothing except the challenging curve to her lips and the muted hunger in her darkening blue eyes. In response, Lexa allows her smile to grow, small and confident, and takes her balled up coat, pulling it onto Clarke’s lap to conceal her efforts. With the added coverage, Lexa freely lets her fingers inch up Clarke’s inner thigh and watches the way Clarke’s lashes flutter warningly and her mouth fall agape. The train shudders again and Lexa utilizes the movement to rest her head back against her seat, looking off to the side, displaying the world’s best poker face and appearing bored to any passerby that looked.

 

Lexa may be excellent in feigning a blank expression, but inside there’s a desperate heat boiling in her veins, threatening to explode like a pressure cooker. It’s difficult to remain still and careful when all she wants to do is yank Clarke back against her, spread the blonde’s legs, and bury her fingers inside her. God, Lexa can’t believe this turn of events, but she’s definitely not complaining.

 

Apparently Lexa’s getting a little too smug because Clarke retaliates. At the next screeching stop, Clarke shifts against Lexa harder than the train momentum warrants; she actually _grinds_ down on Lexa’s lap and Lexa takes a sharp intake of breath, nearly dizzy with the heat tugging at her stomach. The boxcar is getting hot—and it’s not from all the people. Fuck. Lexa doesn’t have to look at Clarke’s face to know she’s smug.

 

The passengers shuffle on and off and Clarke leans over again to let them by; this time, when she shifts back into place, Lexa slides her hand higher, using her forearm to bar Clarke’s legs from closing. This provides Lexa with more room to trace her fingers up, higher and higher, waiting with triumph as she listens for Clarke’s reaction to her fingers slipping under the hem of the her skirt. But then the train shoots forward again, and Clarke once more takes advantage, grinding harder than ever; her ass pressing the zipper of Lexa’s jeans down right where Lexa’s already throbbing.

 

Lexa chokes, pressing her face into Clarke’s back and concealing the strangled noise with a light cough as she clears her throat. She can feel the shake of Clarke’s shoulder blades as the blonde holds in a laugh. Clarke jolts a moment later, when Lexa digs her teeth into a shoulder under the curtain of her hair before sitting up again, acting calm as though all she’d experienced was a coughing spell.

 

That clearly isn’t all Clarke has up her sleeves because when the train stops again, Clarke shifts to make room, and this time, when she settles back in Lexa’s lap, Clarke spreads her legs wide, subtly opening up for Lexa. They both hold their breath as Lexa succeeds in getting her hand completely under Clarke’s skirt and lightly trails her fingers—unsure exactly how far she can go here—whether or not Clarke is at the same point Lexa is right now. It’s answered for her when Clarke spreads her legs again, tips her hips up slightly, so Lexa runs her fingers along the inside edges of Clarke’s underwear and then down the center over soft... _wet_ cotton. God. Clarke’s quiet gasp hisses through her teeth and the woman sitting across from them gives them a weird look they both ignore. Lexa steadies her breathing, hiding her lapse in concentration by tucking her head against Clarke’s back once more. She can’t help it; she can’t focus on anything other than the damp patch she’s running her fingertips across, the soft flesh underneath burning through. She almost can’t believe this is happening—strike that—she _cannot_ believe this is happening. Lexa has a gorgeous almost-stranger on her lap and is rubbing her pussy in public. _What is even happening?_

 

Again: Lexa’s definitely not complaining.

 

At first, Lexa just teases Clarke, lightly skimming over Clarke’s increasingly wet underwear until Clarke’s squirming begins to turn a few eyes, passengers shifting their gazes from their phones. Lexa readjusts her raincoat, bunching higher on Clarke’s lap.

 

They’ve cleared downtown, where now, there are more people getting off than on. With fewer people in the boxcar, Clarke is unable to get away with the hard grinding she was performing earlier. It doesn’t stop her from trying though.

 

Discreetly, Lexa casts a wary glance at the elderly woman next to them. Asleep. And the group of those still standing, eyes glued to their phones. Lexa shifts beneath Clarke, restless and unsure where she wants her free hand. She ends up creeping it up under the cover of the coats and trying her best to be subtle as she slips her hand beneath Clarke’s wet shirt. It clings to her skin so Lexa practically has to peel it back, working her way up slowly. By the time she reaches Clarke’s breast, Clarke is clinging to her raincoat to keep her adequately covered and her back is plastered to Lexa’s front and arching slightly, silently urging her on. Lexa licks her lips, closes her eyes and tips her forehead between Clarke’s tensed shoulder blades. Slowly, so slowly, she presses her fingertips into the wet heat of Clarke’s panties at the same time that she cups one full breast in her hand. Clarke takes another audible hiss of breath; Lexa’s holding her breath. There’s a stiffened nipple pressing against her palm and all she can think about is how she wants it in her mouth. Clarke’s clit pulsates against the tight circles she rubs around it; Lexa really wants that in her mouth, too. If they were alone right now, Lexa would already be on her knees.

 

They aren’t smirking anymore, and they certainly aren’t laughing now either. The train is silent save for the rumble as it shoots down the tracks and the odd cough and sniffles of the other passengers. Clarke is bundled into the raincoats and Lexa is bundled into Clarke, and they use the passengers squeezing past them to get off at their stops as excuses to curl closer into each other. The desperation and longing tangled up in a tight knot in Lexa’s stomach is painful, the insistent heat throbbing between her legs distracting, and Clarke is apparently faring no better. She’s squirming nonstop now and insistently canting her hips. Lexa takes the hint and finally gives her what they both want; she swipes Clarke’s underwear aside and shifts her fingers inside the fabric. They both try their best to hide their shaky sighs as Lexa glides her fingertips up and down across wet heat. Clarke is soaked, smooth and slippery, and Lexa’s mouth may or may not be watering at the thought of sucking on her fingers at the first opportunity that presents itself.

 

She tries to stick to Clarke’s clit, gathering wetness from the entrance and trailing it up around in languid figure eights, but Clarke is canting her hips more and more and it’s like her cunt is suckling at Lexa’s fingers; she can’t resist gravitating down, can’t fight the pull even as the train stops again and people brush past them as they leave. The doors shut and the train lurches to life. Simultaneously, Lexa slips inside Clarke with the sound of the starting train and a quiet whine escapes Clarke’s lips. It causes the elderly woman who had been intermittently napping to stir but Lexa pays her no mind; she’s in complete awe of Clarke.

 

Tracks rattle and Lexa uses it to push her finger in deeper, getting a feel for Clarke and attempting to find a rhythm in their current situation. Clarke is beginning to twitch, ruffling the coats on her lap; she curls her head toward Lexa and Lexa catches a brief glimpse of the color high on her cheeks and her flared nostrils, but her eyes are shut and she seems to be trying to act as though she’s sleeping. It’s almost funny, considering the muscles clenching around Lexa’s fingers, enveloping them in warm silk, a stark contrast to the battering cold outside with rain striking hard against the train windows. Her fingers slide through molten heat and Clarke is beginning to _whimper_ , lips pursed and a crease of concentration in her brow. Lexa’s not sure what Clarke is concentrating on: to come or not to come. Lexa wants her to come, doesn’t give a flying fuck if Clarke leaves a giant stain on her black pants. Slowly, Lexa wraps her free hand around Clarke’s waist, pulling Clarke down with each slow thrust. Lexa is sure the elderly woman is now awake, but Lexa simply presses her face against Clarke’s shoulder, averting eye contact.

 

The vehicular stops and starts don’t matter anymore, discretion jettisoned with each departing passenger, and Lexa’s hand is _soaked_ past her knuckles. Lexa’s grip on Clarke’s hip tightens, maybe enough to bruise, intervening to control the way Clarke is rocking her hips—no longer aligning with the speeding train but with Lexa’s fingers—in a vain attempt to keep it from being obvious. They’re both breathing harder, sucking in shallow gasps and holding them, trying not to reveal themselves to the few remaining passengers. With every roll, Clarke’s ass presses the Lexa’s pant zipper harder into the her own clit and God—Lexa wouldn’t think that’d be enough to get her off but here she is with a telltale tightening coiling in her gut, wet enough to feel it seeping through her underwear.

 

Something has to break. There’s no way they can keep at this, not without giving it away and best case scenario having the most embarrassing moment of their lives, worst case scenario getting arrested. But Lexa doesn’t know how long she can keep this up, she can barely breathe and she wants, she _needs_ to feel Clarke the way she deserves to be felt, to fuck her the way she deserves to be fucked, and—

 

And apparently Sappho is smiling down at them today because at the next stop, the last three passengers depart. Lexa blinks as she watches them leave, the little old lady beside them blearily rising and shuffling off, leaving them utterly alone in their boxcar. Clarke and Lexa look at each other in the ringing silence; the doors slam shut and they erupt in a frenzy.

 

Clarke groans and dips her head back onto Lexa’s shoulder and Lexa thrusts deeper into her before Clarke can even swivel around to straddle her. Clarke cranes her neck back, twisting as far as she can to crash their lips together. Lexa enters a second finger as Clarke’s tongue plunges into her mouth. Clarke tastes a thousand times better than the coffee she makes—and that’s saying something. Clarke’s hips rise and fall, legs spread wide over Lexa’s lap, riding her fingers as she kisses her until she has to break away for air, dropping her head back against Lexa’s shoulder and shuddering as Lexa lifts a thumb to trip circles around her clit.

 

It’s a difficult angle, fucking Clarke this way, facing away and her ass still pressed into Lexa’s crotch. Lexa’s arm burns with the effort to stretch across to get as deep as she can, but they’re too far gone and there’s no way they’re moving. The otherwise empty boxcar fills with the sound of their heavy breaths, with Clarke’s keening moans, with the wet squelch of Lexa’s fingers pounding into her.

 

Lexa releases her hip, a moan crawling out of her throat when Clarke immediately capitalizes on it by grinding harder into her, taking her fingers deeper and pressing harder into Lexa’s clit at the same time. Lexa’s free hand snakes up, shoves the underwire of Clarke’s breasts aside with some difficulty considering how well endowed she is. Free from restraint now, Lexa plucks at Clarke’s nipples and kneads at her tits as she closes her lips over Clarke’s neck, llicking up the light sweat at the back of her neck beneath her sweet-smelling golden hair.

 

“Oh God, fuck,” gasps Clarke, neck straining beneath Lexa’s tongue.

 

She can feel Clarke’s walls tightening, can sense how close Clarke’s getting by the desperation with which she writhes. She is so close, so close to coming directly in Lexa’s hand, but then—

 

That ass keeps pressing against her and Lexa can’t help it. Lexa’s orgasm takes her completely by surprise; one minute she’s playing with Clarke’s tits and imagining them in her mouth, and fucking her and imagining _that_ in her mouth, and then she’s gasping and stilling as Clarke’s ass rubs up against her clit just right and there’s nothing Lexa can do to stop it. The orgasm roars over her and she throws her head back like she’s in need of a fucking exorcism and afterwards, when Lexa’s catching her breath and Clarke turns around to blink at her in astonishment, it finally catches up to Lexa. She grimaces, completely mortified and blushing harder than she’s possibly ever blushed in her life. The fact that she just came without being touched, much less how quickly, is humiliating to say the least.

 

“You just came?” says Clarke blankly, and it’s clearly a statement but she almost poses it as a question in her shock.

 

“I, um… yeah,” breathes Lexa, wincing and certain her face is as red as a tomato. “Sorry, I— “

 

Clarke is flipping over before Lexa can even finish talking, and then she can’t talk even if she tried because Clarke is straddling her, skirt ridden all the way up, rain coats abandoned to the floor, and Lexa’s hand is still in her, holding her underwear aside so she can catch glimpses of beautiful, beautiful things.

 

“Why the fuck are you apologizing? That’s so fucking hot, Lexa. I’m jealous.”

 

Lexa gapes at her—not so much because of the words, but because Clarke has just lifted her shirt and bra up above her chest and exposed full, gorgeous breasts that Lexa is pretty sure just caused her brain to implode.

 

“C’mere,” says Clarke, grabbing the back of Lexa’s head and guiding her close and yeah, you don’t have to tell Lexa twice.

 

It’s a miracle no one arrives at the next stop, because they aren’t stopping for anything and if someone entered they would have walked into quite the sight; specifically, Lexa three fingers knuckle-deep in Clarke, sucking on one nipple while her free hand pinches at the other. After a moment she switches to lavish attention on the other and allows her free hand to roam, gliding over smooth skin and soft curves, up to briefly tangle in Clarke’s hair before down again, following the flare of Clarke’s hips and then squeezing a handful of asscheek.

 

Clarke’s moans turn higher pitched at that; Lexa pauses with her free hand while her other continues moving, pulling back slightly to study Clarke’s expression; she’s gorgeous and flushed and biting her lip. Lexa watches her closely as she squeezes her ass again, noting the way her brows draw up and Clarke’s moans turn keening again as her hand gets close to her center. Lexa shifts her fingers, drifts them closer to where Clarke seems to want them, and watches… when Clarke’s eyes fly open and they’re so dark they’re nearly black, and she looks at Lexa beneath hooded lids before seizing the back of her neck and drawing her into a searing kiss, Lexa knows. She knows and she listens and she swallows the desperate moan Clarke gives her when she gently rubs her fingers over Clarke’s ass, when she strokes her thumb over her clit and hooks her fingers deeper inside her. That’s it. One, two, three, four strokes of her ass, and two particularly hard drives into her cunt, and Clarke is pouring harder than the rain into her palm, body shaking and trembling as her orgasm floods over her.

 

Fuck. Lexa’s never going to get this vision out of her head. She watches her in awe, her heart pounding, biting her lip hard enough it nearly draws blood. Clarke comes down slowly, her moans turning sweet and soft; Lexa kisses the taste of them off her lips. They cling to one another, Clarke draped over her like a warm blanket, shivering and overheated.

 

The train begins to slow again. Lust haze faded, Lexa gently extracts her hand and reaches up to pull Clarke’s bra and shirt down to cover her. Clarke grabs the rain coat from where it had fallen and envelops the both of them, scooting up and wrapping her arms around Lexa’s neck and drawing her into a tight embrace. They’re both limp and trembling from their orgasms, but the feel of the searing heat from where Clarke’s skirt is hiked up and the apex of her thighs is pressed against Lexa’s stomach. Fuck. She’s not done, she’s not satisfied—Lexa wants Clarke in the privacy of a dimly lit bedroom, wants her completely naked and laid out before her, wants to take her time touching and tasting and—

 

“Clarke,” begins Lexa, clearing her throat. She doesn’t know why she’s so nervous, considering what they just did. Clarke pulls back to look at her and Lexa gets lost for a moment in blown pupils about to swallow her whole.  “Would you...do you think you might...I mean. Would you care to come over to my place?”

 

“Lexa.” Clarke’s voice is rough and scratchy, sending shivers up Lexa’s spine in the best possible way. She looks at Lexa with something akin to incredulity and desperation, like she’s half a breath away from dragging all of Lexa’s clothes off. “God. If I don’t come home with you right now, I might die.” Her expression softens as she reaches over and cups Lexa’s face in her hand. “You know, I’m not usually this easy.”

 

“Neither am I,” confesses Lexa. She clears her throat again, pressing her lips together to hide a smile before adding, “Truthfully, I’m only inviting you over for the off chance that you'll make me some coffee.”

 

Clarke’s lips tug up on one side. “Strike two. You have a half naked girl asking you to take her home and you’re more concerned about coffee.”

 

Lexa rolls her eyes affectionately. “I thought I already had a strike two.”

 

“Well, you ended up giving me a seat anyway, so I took it back. But you’re on thin ice, pal. In fact, I’m only coming over if there’s breakfast included in this offer.”

 

“I mean.” Lexa’s smirk is slow and curling. “I could eat, too.”

 

That wipes the grin off Clarke’s face, especially when Lexa brings her hand up and sucks a finger into her mouth. The taste nearly has her eyes rolling into the back of her head, heavy and tart.

 

“What do you think?” asks Lexa, holding Clarke’s black-eyed gaze as she licks her fingers clean.

 

“I think I’m jealous again,” says Clarke, voice low and husky, looking at Lexa like she’s about to ride her fingers again right here right now. But they’ve reached the end of the line and the train will be proceeding back into the town soon. There are two people getting on: an elderly couple that shoots them a questioning, disgruntled look when they see them so intertwined. Clarke and Lexa return the scathing look as the Clarke grabs Lexa’s hand and yanks her out the doors. Why the fuck are such old people even out at this time anyway?

 

“Where the hell even are we?” asks Clarke as they step onto the platform.

 

“Last stop on the greenline,” says Lexa, taking the lead. “My place is only a few blocks away, c’mon.”

 

They pull on their coats while departing the train station. Water drips from every crack in the cement ceiling as they emerge from the underground stairwell; it’s still pissing down rain outside. They’re only steps away from leaving the safety of the building when Lexa halts in her tracks. “Shit.”

 

“What?’

 

“My umbrella. I left it on the train.” As the words leave her mouth, the sound of the tracks click and rattle overhead. She deflates. “Damn.”

 

The rain is relentless, slamming hard enough to ricochet off the pavement and accompanied by wicked gusts of wind, but Clarke meets Lexa’s exasperated gaze and smiles, shrugging before she grabs Lexa's arm and pulls her forward into the deluge, kissing her soundly.

 

“I don’t mind getting a little wet…” she murmurs when she pulls back.

 

Lexa blinks at her, watching the way droplets carves down her face. They're both soaked, in more ways than one. Lexa smirks and threads their hands, pulling Clarke up the street towards home. They make the journey laughing and splashing, paying little heed to the puddles they crash through. Water splatters across their pants, boots are sodden, and raincoats are soaked through. Still, they laugh like school children and halfway, Lexa drags Clarke into the covered alcove of a bus stop, pressing her against the glass to kiss her again. Clarke tastes like the rain itself, sweet and fresh as if Lexa were drinking directly from a waterfall, and she can’t help but to remember the taste of her on her fingers and imagine drinking her in straight from the source. She can’t wait to go down on her, breathless at the thought of driving her tongue deep between Clarke’s legs. Lexa briefly considers, again, dropping to her knees right now. The second time this evening and if she thinks it again she might just have to do so and swear fealty while she’s at it because she never wants to go another minute without Clarke pressed flush against her, hands in her hair and lips on hers. Lexa’s close to dropping to her knees after all, because several of the street lamps are out and no one in their right mind would be out in this torrential downpour. But she reconsiders when the hiss of the incoming bus draws her attention. She forces herself to pull back and gives Clarke’s hand a tug to proceed on, hurrying on with breathless giggles.

 

Finally they reach Lexa’s place. They stumble through the entrance after Lexa drops her keys, twice, and Lexa wastes no time in pinning Clarke against the back of the door and going for the for the jugular. The sinful noises that rumble up Clarke’s throat are going to be in Lexa’s head for days. She licks a broad strip up Clarke’s neck, lapping up the mix of sweat and rainwater before kissing her and letting her suck the taste off her tongue. They manage to briefly part to peel each other’s tops and bras off, rolling wet garments and leaving them in a sopping heap on the hardwood floor before they’re kissing again, hands wandering like they don’t even know where to start. Lexa trails kisses down her jaw as she shoves down Clarke’s skirt and underwear and continues down her chest, eager to acquaint herself with breasts that felt perfect in her hands earlier, but Clarke clearly has an agenda of her own and pushes Lexa against the adjacent wall.

 

Lexa hits the wall with a _umph_ that Clarke swallows while quickly working the zipper of Lexa’s pants. Lexa barely has a leg out when Clarke reaches between and easily buries two fingers inside her with no preamble. Lexa is _soaked._

 

“Oh, shit…” Lexa’s kissing falters at the sensation, gripping into wet blonde hair and slamming her head back against the wall.

 

“What do you like?” rasps Clarke as she drags the tip of her thumb over the tip of Lexa’s swollen clit.

 

“Oh,” Lexa moans, trying and failing to look at Clarke as she drags her thumb over again. “Any— anything. Fuck, Clarke.”

 

“I like it when you say my name,” Clarke murmurs, nuzzling her face into Lexa’s neck as her fingers pick up pace, fucking Lexa with increasing enthusiasm. “Almost as much as I like saying yours…”

 

“Can’t—can’t spell it though,” gasps Lexa, unable to resist teasing Clarke even now.

 

Clarke punishes her by slowing her pace exponentially, smirking at the way Lexa whines. She waits until Lexa groans an apology before she resumes a quickened pace. “Been wanting you since you first walked through the doors…” Lexa gives a full-body jerk when Clarke’s teeth scrape across the column of her throat before her lips suction on just above her collarbone, leaving what’s sure to be a dark, raging mark. “How was I supposed to remember your name when I was already imagining what you’d look like when you come?” She thrusts harder, pushing deeper inside and humming at the loud moan it rips from Lexa. “And then, back on the train...God. I want to feel it. I want to see you when you come for me, _Lexa_.”

 

Clarke drives in harder still and Lexa hooks her leg around the small of Clarke’s back, urging her deeper. Their kisses are sloppier than ever, but Lexa can’t care less as Clarke slams into her, bringing her closer and closer to the brink. She has a deathgrip in Clarke’s hair, and the other hand is splayed on the wall for balance when Clarke starts using her hips to help thrust, pounding Lexa against the wall. And when Clarke readjusts, pressing the heel of her palm hard against Lexa’s clit, that’s it. Lexa shouts herself hoarse before she comes with a strangled moan, her body freezing before erupting into shudders as she spills into Clarke’s hand.

 

Clarke remains unmoving inside her, free hand coming up to gently brush Lexa’s wet hair out of her face. The tender kiss she presses to Lexa’s temple rouses Lexa, lashes fluttering as she opens her eyes. The distant city lights through Lexa’s windows reflect like stars in the night in Clarke’s eyes; when Lexa cups Clarke’s face and peers into the dotted galaxies, it’s as if she’s holding the universe. They kiss, softly at first before it deepens so they’re breathless all over again by the time they break apart.

 

When Clarke pulls out, Lexa watches with astonishment, jaw agape, as Clarke brings her soaked fingers up to her mouth and sucks them clean, licking every last drop, humming in satisfaction. She watches Lexa watch her with hooded eyes and gives her a slow, alluring smile. “Taste,” she whispers, popping her last finger out of her mouth to slip it into Lexa’s instead. Lexa swipes her tongue over the pad of her pruned finger, bites gently to prompt Clarke to remove it.

 

“I’d rather taste you.”

 

Lexa surges forward, crashing their lips together. She kicks off the remaining pant leg and hoists Clarke up and around her waist, her gasp muffled against her lips. She grabs a handful of each ass cheek as she fumbles into the bedroom. Lexa sits on her bed with Clarke straddled against her, her weight warm and heavy. Clarke paints her lower abdomen in a warm slick of want, grinding against her.

 

“You are gorgeous,” Lexa tells her between kisses, tasting the curve of Clarke’s smile. “Can you— “ In lieu of explaining herself, Lexa simply pulls back, and scoots up to begin to recline. Clarke’s clearly on the same wavelength, licking her lips before she pushes Lexa flat onto her back. She crawls up to straddle Lexa’s face and Lexa catches a brief glimpse of Clarke above her, hands extending out to grasp the wooden frame of Lexa’s bed, before Clarke’s lowering herself down over her face. Lexa doesn’t hesitant; she tips her mouth upward and sucks Clarke’s clit directly into mouth, hard.

 

“Oh, fuck!” Clarke cries and makes a small attempt to pull away from the initial rush of sensation but Lexa wraps her arms around Clarke’s thighs and pulls her down against her face. “God, fuck! _Fuck_.” Clarke continues to let a string of profanity loose while gripping the headboard to steady herself. The taste of Clarke from her fingertips earlier is _nothing_ compared to this; Lexa is drinking directly from the source and God—It. Is. Good. Her face is smothered, Clarke is _so wet_ and Lexa can’t decide whether to focus her tongue on Clarke’s hard and swollen bud or thrust it as deeply as it can go. Fuck it—Lexa does both, getting whatever she can as Clarke writhes above her. Clarke’s inner walls flutter and her clit pulsates against Lexa’s nose. Thighs shake and knees bang against the headboard as Clarke rolls over her tongue. Lexa is fucking drowning in a deluge of deliciousness, finally quenching a weeklong thirst, her body drinking as if it had gone through a lifetime of drought. She doesn’t stop to breathe, taking all of Clarke in her mouth and picking up her pace. Clarke is rocking so hard the headboard is leaving indents in the wall, but Lexa only stretches her tongue out even farther. Her hands release Clarke’s thighs and shoot up to cup those full breasts—Clarke literally has the _most_ _perfect_ tits Lexa has _ever_ seen— thumbing circular strokes before taking the pebbled peaks between her fingertips, pinching and rolling.

 

“Oh, God, _fuck!_ Gonna— I’m gonna—Lex—I’m coming! _Fuck_.”

 

Clarke comes, convulsing violently and Lexa does her best to steady Clarke over her mouth, flatting her tongue to ride the miniature spasms of Clarke’s clit. A splash of thick warmth coats her chin before dripping down her neck until finally, Clarke’s shudders dwindle and she slumps. Collapsing and falling off the side to recuperate from her orgasm.

 

“Fuck, that was fucking fantastic…” Clarke exhales in disbelief with hands across her face, head tipping backward over the edge of the bed, breathing hard and ragged.

 

Lexa smiles; Clarke is glistening in rain and sweat with evidence of her come dripping between her folds and Lexa rolls onto her elbows, scooting forward, already desperate to have Clarke in her mouth again. She plants soft kisses along Clarke’s inner thighs and Clarke threads a lazy hand in Lexa’s hair. Lexa’s approach this time is much more tentative, kissing delicately before extending her tongue, lapping up what’s left before starting again.

 

And again.

 

And again.

 

/

 

The sound of thunder rumbles in the distance as Lexa carries two steaming mugs into her bedroom. Clarke is curled up in a rumple of sheets, naked skin glowing in the daylight that struggles to break through the dark clouds. Blonde hair sex-mussed and wild, Clarke gratefully takes the coffee as Lexa scoots back under the warm covers. Lexa kisses Clarke’s shoulder and they drink their coffees in perfect silence, watching the rain pelt against the window and storm loom over the city.

 

This has been perfect. Last night and this morning—Lexa doesn’t want it to end.

 

“I like your collection,” says Clarke suddenly. Lexa looks up at her quizzically before following her line of sight to the row of cups stacked up on her desk, all the ones Clarke gave her. She blushes.

 

“Oh. Well, I mean, I couldn’t throw them away. They were made by the most perfect barista, apparently.”

 

“Apparently?” says Clarke teasingly, lips quirking. “I would think you’d have plenty of proof by this point.”

 

She pauses and waits for Lexa’s return, but it doesn’t come. Lexa’s too busy biting her lip and staring at those cups, thinking of the promise she’d missed out on because of work—her free cup with a phone number. This is her chance.

 

“Clarke.” Lexa takes a deep breath, clutching her mug like it’s a lifeline as she meets blue eyes that are somehow simultaneously the most terrifying and calming thing she’s ever seen. “Could I have your phone number?”

 

Clarke smiles, her cheeks rosy. “Strike three.”

 

Lexa blinks. “Strike three?”

 

Clarke reaches up, softly kisses her. “I already gave it to you.” She lifts up an empty styrofoam cup—the one with triple x's. Lexa takes it and swivels it over to see a phone number scribbled on the side, courtesy of the spare pen she always keeps on her nightstand. She looks up to meet Clarke’s smile with her own.

 

Their coffees are left forgotten and cold as they fall into each other in bed again. Outside the storm rolls past. There’s a brief moment, somewhere between rounds when Clarke’s head is between her legs and Lexa’s catching her breath, when she glances out the window, and all she can think is that her opinions on rain have drastically changed. Rain is the _best._

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuses — @thessclexa


End file.
